" Guys it's not my own story this story was written by my Online Hardcore Pervert Friend , so guys this story not follow my Regular style "
Every love has a beginning. Theirs started with silence, distance, and rules that should have kept them apart. But walls crack, boundaries blur, and sometimes the person you're not supposed to need becomes the only one who keeps you standing. So how Y/N and Jennie went from strangers on opposite sides of the stage lights to something neither of them could let go.
The first day at YG didn't feel like stepping into an office. It felt like stepping into a machine.
Lights hummed overhead, casting sharp reflections off polished floors. Staff hurried down narrow halls with tablets and laptops, speaking in clipped bursts of Korean and English. Doors clicked open and shut. Phones rang without pause.
Y/N clutched the strap of her bag tighter, the weight of her new ID badge heavy against her chest. Assistant Manager. It looked ordinary enough, black font on white laminate. But to her, it might as well have said sink or swim.
"Stick close, you'll get used to the rhythm," Alison, Jennie's longtime manager, murmured as they walked. Her tone was brisk, efficient, but not unkind. She had the aura of someone who had survived years of this chaos, and knew how to bend it to her will.
Y/N nodded quickly, forcing her stride to keep up. She'd dreamed of working in music for years, but nothing about this felt like a dream. It felt like being dropped into the eye of a storm.
And then she saw her.
Jennie Kim.
Not in the glossy, styled way she looked in magazines or stage. Just, in the hall, mask on, hair tied back, expression unreadable as she adjusted the cuff of her jacket while listening to a staff member.
She was smaller than Y/N expected, but her presence filled the space, gravity pulling all eyes toward her. Except Jennie didn't give any of them back. Not the stylists hovering at her side, not the managers double-checking notes, not Y/N, the new face trying not to stare.
Her gaze was cool, detached. She nodded once to the staffer, then turned on her heel, walking away with a kind of grace that was almost sharp.
The Ice Queen.
Y/N had heard whispers already. Polite, but cold. Keeps to herself. All business unless you're one of the members. Still, seeing it in real time hit different. Jennie built walls out of silence, and no one seemed brave enough to climb them.
The first months at YG blurred into a cycle of tasks, schedules, wardrobe runs, frantic phone calls, making sure meals were on time, making sure they weren't late. Y/N learned quickly that the job wasn't about glamour. It was about control, keeping chaos contained.
Jennie was the hardest part of that control.
Not because she was cruel, no, she wasn't. She was polite, always. Thank yous clipped but present, bows precise, requests made with care. But there was a distance. A frost.
Jennie spoke to Alison, to the members, sometimes to stylists, but rarely to anyone else. Not to Y/N. Not beyond what was necessary. Water, please. I need ten minutes. We're running late.
It wasn't hostility. It was something colder, indifference. Like Y/N existed in the same orbit, but not the same world. And Y/N? She accepted it, told herself it was normal. Jennie Kim was Jennie Kim. Untouchable. And she was just staff. Still, sometimes, just sometimes, Y/N caught the moments between. Jennie in the wings, breathing deep, shoulders rising and falling like she was holding the whole stage on her back. Jennie in the van after shows, mask up, head pressed to the glass, silence wrapping her tighter than any blanket.
It was after one of those shows, when it happened.
The van smelled faintly of hairspray and sweat, the leftover adrenaline of a crowd still buzzing in their bones. The members piled in, collapsing into seats. Lisa tapped her phone screen, earbuds already in. Rosé hummed low, almost lullaby-soft, before drifting off. Jisoo tilted her head back, eyes slipping shut the moment the door clicked closed.
Jennie slid into her seat last. She didn't speak. Didn't even glance around. Just leaned against the window, mask tugged down, lashes lowering until sleep caught her like a tide. Y/N sat across from her, pressed against the corner, hands locked in her lap. She wasn't watching. Not really. But she noticed. The way Jennie's brow stayed furrowed even in sleep. The way her shoulders twitched, small, involuntary, under the blast of the van's AC.
A shiver.
It was the smallest thing. But Y/N felt it in her chest.
She hesitated. But the sight of Jennie stripped of her armor for once, fragile in the way she would never allow herself to be, made her move before she could stop herself. The blanket was folded between the seats. Y/N reached carefully, as if the fabric might shatter. Slowly, quietly, she leaned, draping it over Jennie's lap, then shoulders.
Jennie stirred. Lashes fluttered.
Y/N froze, breath caught sharp.
But Jennie didn't open her eyes. Didn't push it away. She only shifted, burrowing deeper into the seat, a sigh slipping past her lips, softer than Y/N thought Jennie Kim could ever sound. Y/N eased back, heart racing. She turned her gaze to the window, watching city lights smear into streaks of white and gold, doing everything she could not to think about what she'd just done.
It wasn't much. A blanket. A gesture. A crack in a wall that had felt unbreakable for months.
It mattered. Somehow, it mattered.
And she couldn't stop wondering if Jennie would acknowledge it in the morning.
Backstage was a hive before a show, a frantic choreography on its own. Stylists hunched over racks of outfits, tugging zippers into place, makeup brushes tapping like clock hands against palettes. Staff shouted, voices clashing with the muffled roar of fans bleeding through the walls. The air smelled like hairspray, fabric glue, and nerves.
Y/N kept her head down, phone hugged close to her chest. She was there to shadow Alison, to fetch what was needed before anyone realized it was missing, to double-check schedules against actual time. Quiet, invisible, that was the job.
Jennie had just left, muttering that she forgot something, the door swinging soft behind her. The buzz of voices filled the space again.
"She's impossible sometimes," one stylist said, tone pitched low but not low enough. "Always frowning, always changing something. Honestly, she makes everything harder than it has to be."
Another gave a small laugh, not unkind but dismissive. "That's Jennie. The difficult one of the group."
The words landed in Y/N's chest like a slap. Sharp. Offhand. Too familiar.
Her grip on the phone tightened, knuckles whitening against the edge. She wasn't supposed to hear. She wasn't supposed to care. This was normal, staff whispered all the time, behind closed doors, sometimes even in the open like this. You ignored it. You pretended it didn't exist. That was the rule.
.
It should have stopped there. They weren't friends. She was staff. But she found herself checking in every few days, weaving her concern into questions about deliveries, deadlines, schedules. Jennie's answers stayed short, but she always replied.
Then, late one night, weeks later. It shifted. Her phone buzzed past midnight.
You still awake?
Y/N was half-asleep herself, phone slipping in her hand. She blinked at the words. Yeah. Why?
Jennie's response came almost instantly.
Can't sleep.
Her first instinct was to keep it light, a quick tip, a brush-off. Try chamomile tea or turn off your phone. But she stared at the screen too long, and the thought of Jennie lying awake, alone in the dorm while the others slept, pulled something loose inside her.
Want me to call? she typed before she could stop herself.
A beat.
Then one word.
Yes
The first call lasted twenty minutes. Jennie's voice was soft, lower than Y/N had ever heard it, like she was afraid to wake the night itself. Y/N did most of the talking, about the stray cat that kept wandering onto her balcony, about her terrible attempt at baking banana bread, about a Netflix show Jennie admitted she'd half-finished but couldn't focus on. Jennie laughed once, quiet and small, and it did something to Y/N's chest she couldn't explain.
When they hung up, the line clicked silent, but Y/N lay awake staring at her ceiling, her chest both heavy and strangely light.
The next night, it was Jennie who called. Then the next.
Hours blurred into hours. Sometimes Y/N found herself pacing her living room in the dark, phone pressed to her ear, Jennie murmuring about everything and nothing, memories from training days, complaints about how the dorm fridge was always empty, confessions about feeling restless even when she was exhausted.
Y/N learned to ask questions gently, without pushing too far. She asked what Jennie had eaten that day. She asked what time she'd woken up. She asked if she'd watched the moonrise, because Y/N had, and it was beautiful. Jennie would hum in response, sometimes deflecting, sometimes giving just enough that Y/N could picture her clearly. Hair tied back, knees drawn to her chest, phone clutched too tightly.
And on the nights when Jennie grew quiet, when the pauses stretched too long, when her breathing came thin and uneven, Y/N filled the silence. She told stories, half-ridiculous ones about her college days, about the neighbors who fought at 2 a.m., about anything that might ground Jennie back into the room.
Sometimes, Jennie fell asleep mid-call. Her voice would trail off, words softening until only the sound of her breathing filled Y/N's ear. Y/N never pointed it out, never teased. She just let the line stay open, listening until the rhythm steadied. Then, only then, would she end the call.
It became routine. A lifeline neither of them admitted to needing.
Y/N told herself it was just part of her job, a kind of caretaking. But when her phone stayed dark for a night, her chest felt too tight, her apartment too quiet.
And the truth, the one she couldn't name yet, was that she needed it just as much as Jennie did.
One night in May, Y/N's phone buzzed past midnight. Jennie again.
She answered before the second ring. "Hey."
But Jennie's voice wasn't soft this time. It was thin. Frayed. Shaking at the edges like it might splinter apart.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," Jennie whispered. "I can't stop— I can't stop thinking. It's so loud in my head."
Y/N's stomach dropped. Sheets slid from her lap as she shot upright in bed, heart slamming against her ribs.
"Jennie." Her own voice shook, steadied only by instinct. "Breathe. Talk to me. I'm here."
Jennie tried. She really did. The words came jagged, spilling in fragments that barely made sense. About fans calling her a disappointment. About the headlines dissecting every blink, every expressionless moment. About wondering if maybe they were right, if maybe she wasn't enough, if maybe she never had been.
Each word hit like glass shattering inside Y/N's chest. She pressed her palm hard against her eyes, fighting the burn there, her throat aching with the effort not to break too.
"Jennie," she said, fierce despite the lump in her throat. "That's not true. Not a single word of it. You're the hardest working person I've ever seen. You're—" her voice cracked, then steadied, low and urgent, "you're great. You're fire. They don't know you. They don't see you. They never have."
Silence hummed down the line. Jennie's breath hitched, uneven. And Y/N knew, she didn't believe it. Not really. Not yet.
"Where are you?" Y/N asked, already swinging her legs out of bed.
"Dorm," Jennie whispered. "Everyone's asleep."
That was all it took.
Y/N didn't think. She didn't weigh the rules or the risks or the fact that she was still just an assistant. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the hollow, breaking sound of Jennie's voice.
She grabbed the first hoodie within reach, shoved her arms through it, yanked her mask off the nightstand. Keys in hand. Shoes half-laced. Her body moved before her mind could catch up.